


Chrysós

by spacegeography



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegeography/pseuds/spacegeography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A recent Gold Medal winner from the Summer Olympics is staying at Downton for two weeks. Thomas tries not to get his hopes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to sodiumbisulfate for both beta and forcing me to stop procrastinating

1924

 

Thomas thought those in service could also double as great mathematicians. Mr. Carson could tell if a wine glass was off by a centimeter with one glance; Mrs. Hughes could calculate how many hours it would take so many maids to clean a certain area in seconds flat; Andy and Molesley cold perfectly choreograph their steps between guests at eh table for the most productive results; Mrs. Patmore and Daisy measured scoops and pours and cooking times precisely; Thomas could whip up a schedule and assignment sheet, keeping in mind the number of guests, days until arrival and speed and ability of staff – in his sleep. Even now, as they all stood in a line by the front door as the cars rolled p, Thomas was sure a measuring stick could be taken out and prove they had all automatically aligned themselves with perfect spacing along the same imaginary line. Yes, servants really deserved more credit than they were given.

            Thomas especially, because his assignment sheet was _immaculate._ It wasn’t fair that Mr. Carson kept him in his office for an hour going over it. His main problem, it quickly became apparent, was who Thomas had given himself for valeting duties for the late summer party. Mr. Simon Hammond was staying at Downton for a full two weeks so the Crawley’s could properly congratulate the fellow Yorkshire man on bringing back the gold medal for Britain in the Olympics. Everyone was excited for his arrival, including Thomas who wouldn’t mind meeting a champion and getting a peek at the medal. Carson had gone over every second of Thomas’s work schedule trying to see a way to convince Thomas he didn’t have to time to valet until it finally came to light that Carson had was concerned about Thomas’s control over his “unnatural urges.”

            Thomas clenched his left hand at the memory, the scarred skin pulling taught.

            “I’ve been valet for his Lordship,” Thomas had said.

            “That is different. Lord Grantham knows of your affliction. Mr. Hammond is completely unsuspecting,” was the reply.

            “I assure you by the end of his stay he will still be unsuspecting.”

            “See that he is,” Mr. Carson had said gravely.

            Mr. Hammond stepped out of his taxi in Downton’s drive and looked up at the Abbey, his neck craning to see the top, is mouth just slightly open. Thomas kicked himself as he noticed it was fairly endearing. Hammond was only middle class, granted access to Downton by his performance in France. It was clear he had never been close witness to such splendor.

            “Dinner should be interesting,” Andy whispered. Thomas elbowed him, but he quite agreed. He was worse than Mr. Matthew had been when he first came.

            Mr. Hammond was wiry – skinny and pointy and not tall at all. He wore glasses that made his eyes look too round, and his face showed each emotion clearly. But he was not bad looking, not at all, and Thomas was not happy about that one bit. He had thick red hair that Thomas wanted to touch; his cheeks were tinted pink from the heat, and Thomas wanted to see them get pinker, wanted to see his mouth fall open with a gasp; and however unassuming he looked, he moved with obvious strength, control, and grace, and Thomas would like to see how his muscles stretched and shifted as he moved. Thomas glanced to Mr. Carson, and clenched his fist once more.

            Lord Grantham introduced Mr. Hammond to the staff briefly. They stopped in front of Thomas. “And this is Barrow. He’ll be your man for the stay.”

            Thomas gave a small bow. Mr. Hammond smiled (Thomas noted that one former of his mouth lifted up a bit more, dimpling one cheek) and held out his hand. Thomas bit his lip to keep a straight face. Mr. Hammond dropped his hand, tuning pinker. “Right, sorry,” he mumbled with a nervous glance to Lord Grantham. His Lordship led him away and the servants were dismissed.

            Thomas walked besides Andy, ignoring the chatter, irrationally angry at Mr. Carson for how good looking Mr. Hammond was.

 

 

Thomas and Andy spent most of the afternoon setting the table. Mr. Carson circled the room, occasionally swooping down to readjust the angle of a fork or place card. When the chairs had all been pulled out, Mr. Carson, standing at the head of the table with his hands behind his back, gave a bob of the head to show his approval.

            “Excellent. I’m confident we will meet the Dowager’s approval,” he said.

            Thomas wanted to roll his eyes. Why Carson so badly wanted the old lady’s approval Thomas didn’t know – especially as it was not _her_ house, or her guests, and the part was starting tomorrow when the majority arrived.

            “Now then. Finish the rest of your duties, and keep an ear out for the gong. I shall be ringing it within the hour.”

            On the way down to the servant’s hall Andy said, “Course you would give yourself Mr. Hammond.”

            “Course,” Thomas said with a grin. “He is a champion after all; he deserves the best.”

            Andy laughed. “Always humble. But did you really have to give me the baron? He’s older than Father Christmas.”

            “That’s the point, Andy. He’s too blind to see if you’ve done a poor job.”

            “Oi!” Andy gave Thomas a playful shove that caused Thomas to stumble through the doorway, and Mrs. Hughes to tell them off.

 

 

Ten minutes after the gong was rung, Mr. Hammond had yet to come into his room. Thomas wondered if he should go looking for him. Before he could, though, the door opened and Mr. Hammond started at the sight of him.

            “Oh! I didn’t know you’d be in here already.”

            “I didn’t mean to startle you, sir,” Thomas said.

            “It’s fine.” Mr. Hammond came further into the room. He stopped, his hands on his hips, in front of the clothes Thomas had laid out for him. “Thanks.” He smiled. Thomas was surprised to see that it was genuine, just because he’d taken a suit out of a wardrobe.

            “Just doing my job, sir,” he said.

            “All the same,” Mr. Hammond said.

            Thomas stepped forwards to help him out of his jacket. Mr. Hammond let him, though he seemed uncomfortable. By the time he was about ready, he was bright pink. Thomas almost got his hopes up, but decided it was foolish to do so. The man wasn’t used to being dressed and was obviously embarrassed by the procedure.

            He took his tie, grateful for the opportunity to step away and do something himself. “Never can do it without a mirror,” he muttered as he leant closer to the dresser. A minute later, he turned back and said, “Apparently can’t do it with a mirror, either.” His tie was loose and one bow was much larger than the other.

            Thomas nearly laughed. Mr. Hammond looked incredibly sheepish, standing with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides like a boy who’d been scolded.

            “Goodness, I feel like when I was a boy and my mother had to do up my tie,” Mr. Hammond said as Thomas deftly tied the knot.

            “It’s alright. Plenty of the men I’ve valeted for can’t do it.”

            “Can’t they? That’s a relief.” But Mr. Hammond looked anything but relieved. He was getting tenser by the moment. His fingers fidgeted, he bit his cheek, and when Thomas finished, he ran his hand through his hair.

            “Sir…”

            “Hmm?”

            Thomas nodded at the mirror. Mr. Hammond looked at his reflection – his dark red hair was now sticking straight out.

            “Oh no,” he said. He looked, Thomas thought, like he would be sick. “Oh, no. No, no. Oh, it never stays flat! It took me ages it stick it down, and now I’ve botched it!”

            “Sir –”

            “Oh, God, I can’t do this Mr. Barrow. I can’t go down there, I’ll look like an idiot. I’ll sound like an idiot. I am an idiot, Mr. Barrow. Just because I can run fast doesn’t mean I know how to talk to these people. I –”

            “Mr. Hammond!” He looked up at Thomas, his eyes wet. “I can fix your hair. We’ve time. And I can assure you, however much of an arse you make of yourself down there, believe me, this family has seen worse. The heir was a solicitor, a Lady ran off with the communist chauffer, and a school teacher insulted his Lordship over the main course. There’s not much left to shock them with.”

            Mr. Hammond let out a breath and squared his shoulders. “Right. I can do it.”

            “That’s the spirit, sir.”

            “Right. And if they have a problem, hang the lot of them, I’ve got a fucking gold medal, Mr. Barrow.”

            “Precisely.” Thomas felt something akin to adoration and admiration, but he ignored it. “Now, let’s sort your hair.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

As underbutler, Thomas didn’t do much at dinner. He poured the wine and, along with Mr. Carson, kept an eye on the footmen. They were usually competent, though, so Thomas spent the majority of his time stiff backed and letting his mind wander. He kept half an ear on the table in case something interesting was said, but most nights he let it wash over him.

       It was not most nights.

       “What did your father do?” Lord Hayes asked in such a loud voice that the whole table could hear. His fork shook dangerously in his hand, the bit of fish stuck on it threatening to fly off.

       “He was a doctor,” Mr. Hammond said.

       “What?” Lord Hayes shouted, leaning closer.

       “A – a doctor,” Mr. Hammond said louder. He glanced around the table. Sure enough, everyone was sneaking looks with pitying smiles.

       “A doctor? Goodness, I hope you didn’t follow in his footsteps. Nasty business, being a doctor, all that blood and sick.”

       Mr. Carson’s eyes went comically wide; Andy and Thomas shared amused and horrified looks. The phrase “blood and sick” had never been uttered at the dinner table before.

       “Arthur, where was it you spent the summer ’78? I recall it was an excellent story,” the Dowager said from Mr. Hammond’s other side.

       “Oh! Yes, it was – oh dear now where was it… Hmm…” the Baron fizzled off and blinked down at his plate.

       “Always does the trick,” the Dowager whispered. “Where was it you went to school?” she said properly to Mr. Hammond.

       “Oxford.” There was a pause where the Dowager waited for him to expand (and Thomas helplessly watched Mr. Hammond’s eyes search for him as his hand fluttered around his ear, as if he wanted to run it through his hair but remembered not to). Mr. Hammond didn’t say anything more, just sat looking uncomfortable until the Dowager said, “And what did you study?”

       “Literature. And um… of course I was on the track team there.”

       Andy came round then to take the plates; Mr. Hammond murmured thank you, just as he had each time one of the staff had done something. Thomas finally managed to catch his eye and shake his head slightly. Mr. Hammond blushed and cleared his throat. Thomas had a feeling by the end of the night he would be as red as his hair.

       He was quickly proved wrong. It did not take until the end of the night, but rather until Mr. Carson came around with the wine.

       “Oh, none for me, “Mr. Hammond said quickly. His first glass was still full.

       “Oh, but you must,” Lord Grantham said. “It’s an excellent vintage. I made the wine list myself.”

       “Well – oh – yes I’m sure it’s grand, I didn’t mean – only I don’t drink, you see.”

       “But with dinner, surely,” the Dowager said, looking incredulous.

       Mr. Hammond glanced at Thomas before turning to her. “I can’t. It’s part of my training – can’t have a drop.”

       “The race is won,” Lady Mary said, “surely you can indulge.”

       “I really couldn’t.” Mr. Hammond shifted in his chair. His blush was spreading from his cheeks down his neck. “I’m meant to keep on my training.”

       “And what does this training entail?” the Dowager asked, as if she were about to hear the most unbelievable tale.

       “No alcohol, you know, or tobacco; a good diet, exercise, no – er,” he turned pinker still. “Nothing that could compromise my chances.”

       “I sounds very healthy,” Lady Grantham said kindly.

       “Yes, and very dull,” the Dowager said.

       “Athens!” Lord Hayes suddenly shouted. “Yes, a lovely summer. Very pretty seaside, it was!”

       “I’m sure, Arthur!” the dowager yelled back. “Now what was the story of the funny man in the hotel?” Lord Hayes went back to his pondering.

       Mr. Hammond, glad of the distraction, ducked his head and put food in his mouth. He raised his eyes to Thomas. Thomas had to work very hard to keep a straight face.

       The rest of dinner was less eventful; Mr. Hammond stayed mostly silent and stammered through conversation with minimal embarrassment. When the ladies went through, Thomas went with them, leaving Mr. Hammond alone with Lord Hayes and Lord Grantham. Thomas felt bad to abandon him to a cloud of cigar smoke and scotch, but there was nothing to be done. He served after dinner drinks and coffee by rote.

       “Poor Robert,” the Dowager said as she settled herself in a chair. “Stuck with Arthur by himself.”

       “He’s not alone, Granny,” Lady Edith said.

       Lady Mary rolled her eyes and said, “I doubt Mr. Hammond will be much help. He couldn’t hold a conversation with a mirror.”

       “Mary,” Lady Grantham chided.

       “But she’s right, Cora. I don’t know what Robert was thinking, inviting him for the whole party. He’s win does merit congratulations, but not for two weeks.”

       Thomas bit his cheek. He wanted to snap at them that Mr. Hammond was a nicer gentleman than the lot of them combined, and he would much rather spend two weeks listening to Mr. Hammond stumble through a story than serve the rest of the boring, old party.

       “I think you’re being quick to judge,” Lady Edith said. “He’s shy. I’m sure he’ll open up.”

       “Oh, Edith, you always believe the best in men. And look how well it’s worked out for you,” Lady Mary said.

       Lady Edith sat up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

       “Just that you’re incredibly gullible and therefore prone to disappointment.”

       “And I suppose being cynical about men has brought you all the happiness in the world? Or has it made you waste time you could have spent being with someone?”

       “Girls,” Lady Grantham warned. Lady Mary and Lady Edith but pursed their lips.

       Thomas stood by the sideboard with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He’d have fun retelling this little spat to Andy and Daisy. They’d gotten some low blows in.

       Mr. Carson came in with the men shortly after. He slid neatly next to Thomas and said, “His Lordship and the other gentlemen wish to play billiards after the ladies go up. I trust the room is prepared?”

       “Yes, Mr. Carson.”

       “Good. Tell Andy that he should look after them.”

       “Yes, Mr. Carson.” Thomas wondered how many times a day he said the same phrase. One day, when he was years older he was sure he would lose all memory of saying anything other than “yes, Mr. Carson” or “yes, your Lordship.”

       Thomas went back to his rounds with the silver coffee pot. He went straight to Mr. Hammond who was sat on a couch with his head resting in his hand. “Coffee, sir?”

       Mr. Hammond jerked his head up. “Hmm? Oh, yes.” Under his breath he added, “Lord help me, I’ll need it.”

       Thomas suspected “His Lordship and the other gentlemen” really meant “His Lordship insisted despite the fact that Mr. Hammond was already half asleep and Lord Hayes has a tremor so bad he’d turn billiards into cricket.”  

 

 

By one a.m. Thomas was ready to fall asleep. But rather than being under his covers, comfortably curled around his pillow, he was in the servants’ hall. He checked his pocket watch and lit another cigarette. The saucer in front of him was over filling with ash; Thomas ripped off small strips of the newspaper he’d read over twice and held them over his lighter until they curled and blackened and flaked onto the pile.

       “You’ll burn your fingers,” Andy said from the door.

       Thomas looked up with relief. “They goin’ up?”

       Andy nodded. “At last. Poor Mr. Hammond kept giving these little hints like ‘oh gosh, another game?’ but His Lordship didn’t catch on ‘til he fell asleep in his chair.”

       Thomas stood and stubbed out his cigarette (which he’d gotten all of two drags out of). “I supposed you didn’t add your own hints, then?”

       Andy looked taken aback. “What? Id didn’t think it’ be my place.”

       “Course it isn’t.” Thomas came round the table and steered Andy out of the room by the shoulder. “That’s why you’ve gotta be subtle about it, see? I reckon half the decisions round here are really made by Carson and Mrs. Hughes.”

       Andy shook his head. “You’re trying to get me in trouble.”

       “Am not!” Thomas said indignantly. He was about to tell Andy off when he remembered that there was a time when he certainly would be trying to get the new footman in trouble, and Andy was probably wise to be wary of his intentions. “Not this time, anyway. Look, take last week – Lady Mary wanted to have tea outside with the lil’uns and of course that meant you and me lugging the table and chairs and settings and food and drinks out to the lawn and back, which I wasn’t keen on. So I said, ‘Of course, M’Lady. And would you like for a tent to be set up in case of rain?’ And she said, ‘Do you think it will rain, Barrow?’ and I told her how it’d been overcast all morning and I wouldn’t want to risk her or the children being caught in a downpour. So I just went on to ask what she’d like to eat, and would she like umbrella’s set out in case, and for the nanny to bring the children’s coats, and before you know it she decided to eat inside.”

       “And she didn’t catch on what you were doing?”

       “Not at all. It was her decision, through and through.”

       By then they had reached the bachelor’s corridor.

       “You’re brilliant, Thomas, really.”

       “I am,” Thomas agreed with a smug grin that Andy laughed at.

       “Well, I’d better get in there,” he said after his chuckle had died out. He rubbed his ear. “I’ll be as deaf as ‘im by the end of it,” he muttered and went through the door.

       Thomas did the same, only to find Mr. Hammond already on the bed, face down on top of the covers and fully clothed. His feet, still in his shoes, dangled off the edge. Thomas shut the door with a loud click but Mr. Hammond didn’t stir. His breath was slow and undisturbed even when Thomas cleared his throat and said his name. When Thomas gently tapped his shoulder, though, he jerked up with a choked gasp and squinted through his crooked glasses.

       “Mr. Barrow?” he asked, his voice slurred with sleep. “What’re you doing here?”

       “My job, sir. To help you undress.”

       “I know how to undress,” Mr. Hammond grumbled. He burrowed his face back into the pillow.

       With any other guest, Thomas wouldn’t have said it. But with Mr. Hammond, he knew he could be a bit more casual – because Mr. Hammond didn’t know how servants where meant to behave, and because he’d been so friendly before. “So you weren’t planning on sleeping in your tails, sir?”

       Mr. Hammond rolled over onto his back and glared at Thomas. “Oh, you’re a clever one, aren’t you?”

       Thomas couldn’t help his smile. “I think you’ll find it more comfortable to sleep in your pajamas, sir.”

       “Yes, yes,” Mr. Hammond said. He dragged himself out of bed and let Thomas help him out of his jacket. When he was ready for bed, he tossed his glasses aside and crawled under the covers without waiting for Thomas to leave. “G’night,” he said.

       Thomas looked up from hanging Mr. Hammond’s trousers in the wardrobe, arranging the creases and lamenting the fact he’d have to iron them already. His throat seemed to swell shut at the sight of Mr. Hammond, already asleep, hugging a pillow to his chest, red hair sticking all over, and pink lips parted as he breathed softly. “Good night, sir,” Thomas said, and hurried out, into his own room, where he sat at his desk trying to focus on anything else before giving up and undoing his trousers.

           

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the guests arrive, and Mr. Hammond makes an unfortunate agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been so long in the making. A combination of block for this chapter and stress of school work.

Thomas had only been up for two hours but it already felt like the longest day of his life. He’d barely gotten five hours of sleep thanks to his Lordship’s game of billiards, and he was already scrambling to keep up with the workload today’s arrivals meant. As he climbed the steep servant’s stairs to wake Mr. Hammond he thought about skipping tea to have a nap. It was still hours away, but looking forward to it made his eyelids ache a little less.

            He knocked on the door and slipped in, tea tray perfectly balanced on one hand. Mr. Hammond was asleep, curled into a tight ball on one side of the bed. Thomas set the tray down and set to opening the curtains wide, hoping the sudden light would wake him.

            It did. Mr. Hammond let out a soft groan and shifted onto his back, his legs stretched out. Thomas noticed his morning hardness and immediately turned to fuss with the tea. His hands were clumsy.

            “Wha’ time is it?”

            “Eight o’clock, sir.”

            “What?” Mr. Hammond exclaimed. Thomas turned to see him pat frantically at the covers. “Where’re my glasses?”

            Thomas plucked them off the side table where he’d placed them last night after Mr. Hammond had tossed them. Mr. Hammond crammed them onto his face with such force Thomas thought he might get a black eye.

            “I can’t believe I overslept, I never –” Mr. Hammond noticed his own groin making a bump in the covers and quickly drew his knees up to his chest. “Shit.” 

            Thomas should have said something, should have changed the topic, pretend he hadn’t noticed the transaction at all. But Mr. Hammond had his hands buried in his mess of red hair, his forehead resting on his knees, letting out an embarrassed whine, and Thomas could feel the mortification coming off him, filling the room like humid air. It stuck in his throat when he tried to suck in a deep breath, pressed his chest down so his lungs couldn’t expand anyway. Mr. Hammond looked soft and creased from sleep, vulnerable and small in the sea of dark blue covers. He imagined that he could laugh and cup Mr. Hammond’s cheek and kiss him slowly.

            Thomas took a step back. No. No, he couldn’t think that. Couldn’t let himself. Couldn’t wish strongly for one person. Not if he didn’t want to be hurt in the end.

            “I brought you a tea tray, sir. The others will be coming down for breakfast within the half hour. Would you prefer to dress yourself?”

            “Yes. Th… Thank you.” Mr. Hammond looked up and adjusted his glasses. Thomas held his gaze – had to, like it was magnetic – until Mr. Hammond broke it by turning his head and ruffling his hair.

            Thomas went downstairs without another word.

 

In the kitchen, Thomas managed to get a cup of tea from Daisy while Mrs. Patmore yelled in the background that they didn’t have time to make everyone and their uncle a cuppa today. He swallowed it in two hard gulps.

            “Alright?” Daisy asked.

            “Busy,” Thomas said, and went off to prove it. He jogged upstairs to check that the dusting and hoovering was done, the flowers had been delivered and arranged, the silver was polished, the gravel drive raked, and the guests rooms aired out. He sent the hallboys skittering out to the yard to get more firewood instead of lazing about in the corridors showing off for each other. Whenever he passed the maids they immediately said, “Yes, I’ve finished it, and you’ve already asked!” Any time he saw Andy, he remembered another little thing needing doing and sent him off as Andy rolled his eyes good naturedly and told him to calm down before his eyebrows fizzed out like Carson’s. Thomas smoothed them down self-consciously. The only time he saw Carson was when the butler was in the china pantry muttering to himself. Thomas’s heart nearly stopped at the thought of one of the settings being nicked. He didn’t know why he cared so much, apart from not wanting any blame if things went south, and strangely, every time he thought of what could go wrong, he imagined Mr. Hammond’s face – his eyes scrunching and mouth twitching at the corner because he was too polite to even make a passive aggressive comment but would most likely say, “It’s okay, Mr. Barrow” which Thomas viewed as a disaster.

            He was conferring with Mrs. Hughes over which guests brought valets and maids when the bell from the drawing room rang.

            “Andy, go see – where’s Andy gone to now?” Thomas snapped.

            “Probably off to do one of the dozens of jobs you’ve assigned him today,” Mrs. Hughes said.

            “He’s not got any more to do than Molesley, and he’s certainly not got any more than me.”

            Mrs. Hughes sighed. “I do hate these big parties. You and Mr. Carson get all out of sorts with the stress.”

            “I’m not out of sorts,” Thomas snapped. Mrs. Hughes raised her eyebrows. “I’m not – oh, I have to go see what they want!”

            “Probably tea, I’ll let Mrs. Patmore know.”

            Thomas went up, feeling a little out of breath by his arrival, and excused himself for his lateness. Lord Grantham brushed it off and asked for tea before the guests arrived.

            “Yes, my Lord,” Thomas said. He purposely kept his eyes forward. Mr. Hammond was seated next to Lady Edith. He did not want to look at him at all today. (Maybe, Thomas thought as he left, I’ll know one of the valets and we can go to Ripon one night and get drunk and fuck.)

            He was back with the teas service promptly and set out serving it.

            “Of course, the hunt will be an excellent way to end the party. You’ll be out, I expect, Mary?”

            “I believe so. I don’t like to miss them.”

            Thomas handed a cup to Mr. Hammond who said, “Oh, thank you,” while staring at the floor. Thomas gave an awkward nod. He ought to correct Mr. Hammond, later, about thanking him for every little thing. And about calling him _Mr_. Barrow.

            Lady Mary said, “Will you be joining the hunt or cheering us on, Mr. Hammond?”

            “I, well –”

            “He’ll be joining it!” Lord Grantham interrupted. “He’s a sporting man, Mary, don’t forget.”

            “I haven’t, Papa, but one shouldn’t presume. Do you like to ride, Mr. Hammond?”

            “Ride?” Mr. Hammond said, a distinct squeak to his voice. Thomas couldn’t help himself; he turned his head just enough to watch as he gathered the teapot and milk back onto the tray.

            “Horses,” Lady Mary said.

            “Right, yes, I gathered. I meant, I… um. Yes. Been a while, of course, though.” Mr. Hammond adjusted his glasses, fidgeting the wire arm.

            Thomas couldn’t pretend to have anything else to do, so he left. Mr. Hammond watched him go.

 

A few hours later, Thomas and the rest of the staff were once again lined up to greet the arrivals. Cars came in twos and threes; Thomas, Andy, and Molesley were like a factory line, opening doors, gathering luggage, and telling the new servants where to go. After the last chauffer pulled away, though, it didn’t stop. Thomas still had to show the valet’s (though there weren’t many of them, considering how many men were staying) to their employer’s room, and their own room in the attics.

            The party congregated in the hall, milling about, the collective chatter echoing off the high ceilings. Thomas fluttered around with drinks; it was harder than it had been in past years. Everyone wanted something different, instead of men wanting brandy and women wanting gin. Thomas had to keep it all straight in his mind _and_ find them back in the crowd because the damn toffs couldn’t stay put until he got back. Mr. Hammond didn’t ask for anything, but Thomas put water in a tumbler for him. He looked immensely grateful for it; he gulped it straight down, to the slight shock of the countess in front of him.

            “And… and how did you enjoy Paris?” she asked, still eyeing the empty glass.

            “Tell her it was water, you ninny,” Thomas thought loudly, but Mr. Hammond didn’t.

            “Well enough. I didn’t see much of it, to be honest. If I wasn’t competing, I was practicing. Though the celebration after was nice.”

            Thomas went on through the crowd.

            The gong was rung shortly after, so Thomas made his way up to dress with Mr. Hammond. His chest felt fluttery, and he cursed himself for it. He’d had his share of upstairs men (he’d had a bloody Duke, for Christ’s sake!), but it was different with Mr. Hammond. He didn’t want to seduce him, use his awkwardness to his advantage, turn what he saw in the morning into leverage and flirtation. Mr. Hammond was too endearing, and Thomas found himself wanting to kiss him gently, run his hands down his chest to feel how warm he was. He didn’t want to fuck him, he wanted to lay down with him, wrap his arms around him, roll his hips slowly until Mr. Hammond came with a little gasp. It had only been two days and he was in too deep and Thomas hated himself for it.

            Mr. Hammond was standing by the window, his fingers drumming the ledge when Thomas came in.

            Thomas hoped Mr. Hammond wasn’t about to bring up what happened that morning. Mr. Hammond had made it worse than it was really, with his reaction. Thomas woke up guests in the same condition plenty of times (hell, _he_ woke up like that plenty) and it was mutually ignored. But Mr. Hammond was so easily flustered, he might still be hung up on it.

            He said nothing, however, except hello and thank you and oh I can do that. He wouldn’t look at Thomas, not really look, though Thomas sometimes thought he was, not at his face but at his chest and neck and once, maybe, his lips. They were just glances and they didn’t mean anything but, but, but.

            When Thomas brushed Mr. Hammond’s shoulders to get off any lint, Mr. Hammond shivered.

            “Sorry,” he said.

            “’S fine,” Thomas said.

            And that was it. Mr. Hammond went downstairs. Thomas did too.

            He thought about all the other upstairs men he’d bedded. He’d flirted and fucked and had a good time. But he couldn’t with Mr. Hammond, because Mr. Hammond was too _good_ for that, too sweet, and Thomas, wildly, would be content to stroke his hair and nothing else and it wasn’t fair that he would never be invited again and Thomas would never kiss him.

 

 

Dinner was decidedly not as entertaining as last night. Mr. Hammond’s nerves were better, probably because he was seated next to Branson who he could talk about normal things with. He was asked to share the story of his winning race, at which he blushed shyly and said it wasn’t a long story because it wasn’t a long race, which got a laugh.

            Thomas served food and served wine and served port and cut cigars and brought after dinner drinks and found his head throbbing in time with his steps. The tension in his temples built until he had to consciously remind himself periodically to unclench his back teeth. The noise of the party felt like the loudest he had ever heard and he had to restrain himself from strangling some dowager with her own pearls when she made a comment about how long he took bringing her sherry.

            He wanted nothing more than to be out in the courtyard with a cigarette. Five cigarettes. Preferably followed by a nice lightning strike.

            “Mr. Barrow?” Mr. Hammond’s voice broke Thomas out of his fantasy of Mr. Carson weeping over his casket.

            “Yes, sir?”

            “I’m going up to bed.”

            “Right, sir. I’ll be up shortly.” Inside, Thomas sang with glee. He told Mr. Carson he had to go up and escaped the party, the noise getting dimmer with every step he took. His head throbbed in its absence, so he closed his eyes as he went up the stairs, letting the pain go out like a tide.

            Mr. Hammond was sitting on the bed, hands in his lap, when Thomas came in.

            “I feel a little foolish,” he said, “having you help me. Now at least. Getting into this garb is a bit more difficult.”

            “If you prefer to undress yourself, sir.”

            “Oh! Ah, well, if you are busy, I suppose. I really shouldn’t, shouldn’t hold you up like this anyway.”

            “It’s fine, sir, it’s part of my job.”

            “Ah, well.” Mr. Hammond glanced down, one hand fidgeting his glasses. “Well, when in Rome, I suppose.”

            “Yes, sir.” Thomas felt a buzz of electricity going down his arms.

            “Speaking of – I’ve agreed to go riding with the lot at the end of this.”

            “I heard, sir,” Thomas said. Mr. Hammond stood and Thomas took his jacket off. His skin was warm through the fabric of his shirt.

            “The only trouble is, I’ve never been on a horse in my life.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been reading Gertrude Stein for class, and in the last part of the chapter, it really shows.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, with Downton over, I lost momentum and interest in this fic. But I fully intend to finish it, though probably slower than I first thought. It won't affect the quality of the writing, promise.

             The next morning was bright. The window above Thomas’s bed was a perfect rectangle of blue; no clouds, no fog, just a swatch of color so smooth it was as if it were painted there. As Thomas went about his early morning duties he kept hesitating in the streams of soft sunlight coming through each window, closing his eyes at the warmth. Thomas wished he could spend the day stretched out, following the sun like a cat.

            His movements felt pleasantly slow. Mr. Carson huffed past him, muttering about how young people had no sense of duty these days. Thomas paused to watch him stalk down the hall with a slight, amused smile before going into the kitchen. “What’s that about?” he asked brightly. Nothing _he’d_ done, obviously, or Mr. Carson wouldn’t’ve bustled right past.

            “He can’t find the hallboys,” Daisy said.

            Thomas smirked and snatched a piece of fruit. “Making mischief, no doubt,” he said.

            “Speaking from experience?” Mrs. Patmore said as she came round. She put the last few things on Mr. Hammond’s tray and pushed it toward him.

            “I weren’t here as a hallboy, Mrs. Patmore, you don’t know what I got up to back then.”

            “I can take a few guesses,” she muttered. “Now, get a move on. I’m not hearing complaints because your dilly dallying let the egg go cold.”

            Thomas said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Patmore, I won’t let anyone besmirch your good name,” and threw in a wink for good measure. She sputtered and said, “Go on, get off with you, you cheeky…” Thomas left, but heard her say to Daisy, “Isn’t he in a good mood this morning.”

            He brought the tray up to Mr. Hammond’s room, but when he entered, he stopped in the doorway. He was reminded, vaguely, of when he’d found the Turk dead and he’d stood, stunned, in the doorway for a solid minute before running downstairs, tray rattling, before finding Mrs. Hughes and stuttering and stammering through telling her he’d found a man dead, eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling.

            “Mr. Hammond?”

            The bed was made. Not as well as the maids got it, but the cover pulled up and pillows put in place.

            Thomas waited, awkwardly holding the tray, but Mr. Hammond did not come in. So Thomas brought the tray back down.

            “Didn’t he want it?” Daisy said when he put it down.

            “He wasn’t there.”

            “What do you mean?” Andy said from where he stood in the doorway.

            “I mean he wasn’t it the room. I dunno where he is.”

            “Well, there’s no one in the dining room, I was just there. Do you think he did a runner?” Andy asked.

            “Don’t think so. His stuff was still on the dresser.”

            “Should we look for ‘im?” Daisy said. Suddenly she gasped. “What if he went to the ladies’ hallway? Or he’s gone to steal something?”

            “He wouldn’t do that,” Thomas said.

            “How do you know,” she countered.

            “Because…” Thomas stiffened. “You’re being ridiculous, Daisy. Aren’t you supposed to be reading textbooks, not trashy novels?”

            “I don’t –” Daisy started, but Mrs. Patmore came in from the pantry and shouted, “Get a move on, Daisy! Harry and Kevin are still missing, you’ll have to get the wood yourself. What are you two doing in here, haven’t you got work to be doing?” she snapped and Thomas and Andy.

            “I’m going for a smoke,” Thomas muttered, and walked out to the yard, being careful to control his anger enough not to be too loud about it. He leant against the wall, eyes on the perfect blue sky and let out a breath. Mr. Hammond wouldn’t. He wouldn’t steal anything, he was too kind for that, and he wouldn’t sneak off to see some girl – or maybe that was wishful thinking. Thomas pulled his lighter and cigarettes out of his pocket.

            Before he had the chance to light up, though, he heard shouts and laughter coming from around the corner.  

            He followed the sound, round the corner to where the bricks of the yard gave way to grass and a gravel path. There were the hallboys, running back towards the house, neck and neck while Mr. Hammond held a pocket watch and shouted, “That’s it, back straight, back straight, almost there!”

            Kevin and Harry crossed their imaginary line and bent over, panting.

            “Very good, lads, two seconds faster than last go.”

            “Yes, let’s see how fast you can get inside before Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore both chew you out,” Thomas said. The boys looked up, eyes wide, before dashing back to the house. Thomas watched them go, a satisfied smirk forming as he shook a cigarette out. He very purposefully did not look at Mr. Hammond.

            “Sorry,” Mr. Hammond said. “I didn’t mean to get them in trouble.”

            Thomas nodded, lit his cigarette and then took a deep pull before turning to give Mr. Hammond a stiff smile. “Not your fault, sir.” He wanted to curse himself, wanted to curse Mr. Hammond. For there he stood, in a short sleeved undershirt and short trousers, hair damp and skin shining.

            Mr. Hammond wiped sweat off his forehead and huffed a laugh. “Well, I ‘spose I should have known they were lying when they said they could spare the time.”

            Thomas agreed, but thought saying so would be too rude. Instead he said, “Breakfast will be served soon, sir, if you’d like to come in now.”

            “In a moment.” He handed Thomas his watch. “I just want to do one last sprint. Time me, won’t you?” Before Thomas could protest, Mr. Hammond was taking off his glasses, pushing them into Thomas’s hand and crouching down.

            Thomas did nothing.

            “On your mark,” Mr. Hammond said, looking over his shoulder.

            “Oh, uh, yes. Ready? Go.” Thomas hit the watch and Mr. Hammond took off like there were springs pushing him. He was fast. Of course he was. He ran with his back straight, his knees coming up high, arms pumping at sharp angles. He ran to a tree, his arms out to keep himself from crashing headfirst, and then turned, barely wasting a second. The wind whipped his clothes back so they were tight against his body, showing clearly as every muscle tensed and pushed. He went past Thomas at full speed before slowly decelerating to a walk. The cigarette in Thomas’s mouth was hanging lamely from the corner of his mouth, burning away to ash.

            “Well?” he asked, barely out of breath.

            Thomas showed him the watch. “Is that good?”

            “No idea,” Mr. Hammond said. He held out his hand for his glasses. “Better than the last time, but I’ve no idea how far I’ve just run, so.”

            “Ah.”

            “Doesn’t matter, really. I’m retiring soon.”

            “What? Why? Sir.”

            “I’ll be too old by time the Olympics come around again. I won’t make it through another training season without hurting myself badly. I’ve already torn enough ligaments for a lifetime. Anyway, I better get inside now, shouldn’t I? I need to wash up before breakfast.”

            “Of course, sir.” Thomas dropped his cigarette to the ground (yet another one wasted).

            Mr. Hammond led the way back to the kitchen door, which he admitted to sneaking out of with the help of the hallboys early that morning. “Didn’t feel decently dressed to go down the main stairs out the door,” he said with a laugh.

            In the servant’s hall, everyone sitting at the table quickly rose to their feet at the sight of them.

            “Oh, no, don’t,” Mr. Hammond stammered, taking a half step back, bumping into Thomas’s chest. “I’m just passing through.”

            Mrs. Hughes said, “Is there something we can help you with, Mr. Hammond?”

            “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just going up to get changed. Thank you, Mr. Barrow,” he said with a nod and then hurried out.

            “Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Hughes said. It was a strange cross between disapproving and stunned.

            “I found him outside giving the hallboys a lesson in running,” he said.

            “Oh, is that where they were,” her voice raising and eyes pointedly staring at the two boys who were wiping the table.

            Thomas took the opportunity to leave while Harry and Kevin got an earful.

 

 

 

That evening, while Thomas helped Mr. Hammond with his cufflinks, he said, “I spoke with the stable master today, sir. He says he wouldn’t mind giving you lessons in the afternoons.”

            “Oh, thank you. Ten days. Do you think that’s enough time to learn?”

            Thomas stepped back to brush Mr. Hammond’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t attempt any jumps, sir,” he said honestly.

            Mr. Hammond gulped.

            The next day he looked nervous, biting his lip and drumming his fingers against his thigh as Thomas walked him to the stables.

            “You’ll be fine, sir,” Thomas said. He itched for a smoke. But he couldn’t, not after that morning. He’d once again found Mr. Hammond outside running, while the hallboys cheered him on. He told the boys to get back in, but they’d complained loudly and Mr. Hammond had suggested a final race before they go. Thomas had stood back, resigned, but Mr. Hammond had only cocked his head and said, “I meant between us two, Mr. Barrow.”

            “What? No.”

            The boys laughed.

            “C’mon, I’ll give you a head start. And I’m sure the lads will gladly agree to get back to work after witnessing it.” They nodded eagerly.

            “I don’t –”

            “A very generous head start.”

            Mr. Hammond had looked so confident, care-free. His nervousness and awkwardness were gone, as if they’d never made him jiggle his glasses or ruffle his hair. And Thomas realized this was where Mr. Hammond truly belonged, running, lungs burning, legs aching with the push to go just a bit faster, a bit farther, the sun shining on his hair and bringing out the freckles on the bridge of his nose and upper arms. He was happy, and that was all Thomas wanted him to be, so he shucked off his jacket and stepped up to the start they’d marked with a stick. Thomas ran towards the tree, in poor form, with poorly regulated breaths. He could hear the boys cheering, he saw Mr. Hammond whipped past him, and then, maddeningly, pause just a few feet from the finish. Mr. Hammond waited until Thomas got closer, a grin on his face, laughter bubbling out of him like music notes bouncing on the lines of a measure, before he jogged over the line.

            “You should quit smoking,” he had said. “You’ll run faster.”

 

            “I should think you’ll get the hang of it quickly, sir,” Thomas said. The stables were finally in view. “It’s mostly balance and a bit of strength. You’ve already got that.”

            “It’d be less intimidating if the horse didn’t have a mind of its own. What if it just takes off?”

            “They’re not wild, sir,” Thomas said. Mr. Brown, the stable master, was standing next to a chestnut mare in the small paddock next to the stables. The horse was lazily eating grass. “You’ll be fine, sir.”

            Mr. Hammond didn’t say anything, just greeted Mr. Brown politely. He bit his lip as Mr. Brown dove into a speech on the different parts of the saddle and reins and how to sit and how to position his heels.

            “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Thomas said.

            “You’re going?” Mr. Hammond asked, panic edging its way into his voice. It made Thomas want to say no, of course not, he’d stay and watch and make sure everything was ok.

            But he said, “I have to, sir; I’m needed in the house. I’ll come back in an hour to show you back.”

            Mr. Hammond opened his mouth, but Mr. Brown clapped him on the shoulder and told him to mount. Thomas paused long enough to watch Mr. Hammond swing himself up with grace and strength that betrayed his nerves before turning away.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **edited to change how many days Hammond has to learn to ride. The party is two weeks, so he gets more time


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Hammond was splattered with mud when Thomas came back to collect him. “It was terrifying,” he said with a large grin, still breathing heavily, “but I think I rather liked it.”

            They walked back through the path in the trees, Thomas desperately trying to keep his face neutral as Mr. Hammond regaled him with every step of his lesson.

            “And then Mr. Brown said I could nudge her into a trot, but I think I was a little too hard about it, because she got the wrong impression and really took off. I managed to hold on for a few paces before I fell off.”

            “You’re alright, aren’t you, sir?”

            Mr. Hammond laughed and put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas’s heart gave a stutter as it picked up speed (although a voice in the back of his head reminded him harshly that Mr. Hammond was filthy and now Thomas had to clean his livery before Mr. Carson saw him). “I’ve had worse tumbles, believe me. You should have seen me when I tried my hand at hurdles.”

            They made their way back to the house; Mr. Hammond washed up, and Thomas went back to his work. He brushed the dirt off his shoulder and pretended he didn’t miss the weight of Mr. Hammond’s hand.

 

 

            “Where have you been?” Mr. Carson snapped as soon Thomas entered the servant’s hall.

            “I was out having a smoke,” Thomas said.

            “Well get upstairs and tend to her Ladyship and her guests. Like you should already be doing!” Mr. Carson took a tea tray off Mrs. Patmore and left without another word.

            “A thank you would be nice!” Mrs. Patmore called after him.

            Thomas wished he hadn’t said he’d just come back from a smoke, because he could surely use one.

            “Where were you really?” a voice said behind him. Thomas turned to see one of the visiting valets sitting at the table, idly shuffling some cards. Thomas hated visiting servants. They never did anything but take up space.

            “I said I was out smoking.”

            “Yes, but I was just out in the yard smoking myself. I didn’t see you. So. Where were you?”

            Thomas sneered. “And I suppose you, having been here all of two days, know exactly where I take my cigarettes?” He left before without bothering to listen to what the man said next.

            Upstairs, Thomas stood at attention in the library while the ladies had tea and said absolutely nothing interesting. He started playing little games with himself, seeing how many books he could count before Lady Mary rolled her eyes again (about 20), counting how many times Lady Edith started to say something before being cut off (6), and calculating how many cigarettes he could have had instead of wasting his time doing nothing but look decorative (depending on how fast he smoked them, but he figured at least 4). He was finally saved when the gong was rung.

            Mr. Hammond was already in his room when Thomas entered, lounging on his bed reading a book with a bright pink cover that said “Blast” in large type.

            “Oh damn, is it dinner already?” he asked as he stood.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “I never went down after I changed. Did they miss me?”

            “I was serving her Ladyship, sir. I don’t know if his Lordship and the other men marked your absence.”

            “If they didn’t, do you think I could get away with staying out of sight until dinner every day? Training didn’t leave me much time for reading.”

            “You could certainly try it,” Thomas said, though it pained him to. He wanted to be able to serve Mr. Hammond tea, to watch him instead of the clock, to get to see him for as many seconds as he possibly could because in a week he would leave and Thomas would never see him again.

            Mr. Hammond hadn’t been wearing a jacket, so he set to undoing his buttons and shrugging off his shirt. Thomas cleared his throat was discreetly as he could. He needed a distraction. He needed to not watch Mr. Hammond’s flat stomach and the soft cotton of his undershirt that Thomas just wanted to press his hand against.

            He nodded to the book that lay discarded on the covers. “Is that good?”

            “Hmm? Oh, yes. Strange, but I like it. I reread it quite often, actually.”

            “Strange, sir?”

            “Yes, here –” Mr. Hammond seemed to light up at the invitation to discuss it, eagerly twisting to grab the book. “Well, this is all in capitals, but I’m not about to shout it at you: ‘Nature is no more inexhaustible, fresh, welling up with invention, etc., than life is to the average man of forty, with his groove, his disillusions, and his little round of habitual distractions.’”

            “That’s very… um.” Thomas had read literature and poems plenty before but nothing quite like that and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say about it.

            “Pessimistic? It’s early modernism, trying to break away from romanticism and all that. Sort of like Shakespeare’s ‘My Mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun’ but without the happy ending.”

            “Right.”

            Mr. Hammond smiled. “If I were still at school I could recite it for you but I don’t think I could anymore."

            “It’s alright. I think I have a book of his sonnets still.”

            “Do you?” Mr. Hammond didn’t say it the way most guests would have. He wasn’t astonished, he wasn’t mocking, in disbelief that a servant could have a collection of Shakespeare, that he could even read. It wasn’t laced with the undertone that he was wasting his time, that he would never truly grasp the meanings. He seemed pleased, excited. “I don’t think we’ve time right now, but later you really have to tell me which is your favorite.”

            “I… if you’d like.”

            “I would. Of course I would.”

            Thomas’s fingers fumbled a bit on the cufflinks that night. He couldn’t stop hearing the words “Of course I would;” he couldn’t stop feeling special.

 

 

 

Mr. Hammond sat next to Tom at dinner, and looked much more comfortable for it. They spoke easily about cars and racing, Mr. Hammond laughing as he admitted he was terrible at football, and Tom animatedly describing a new car on the market. It made Thomas clench his fist against his thigh as he served. He wanted to spill wine on Branson. He wanted to push him out of his chair.

            But every now and then Mr. Hammond would glance in his direction, and Thomas let himself be content with that. I t didn’t matter if he got to sit at the dinner table with Mr. Hammond anyway; he would never get what he really wanted.

            Thomas took his place at the sideboard as dinner went on. There were too many conversations going on at once to properly eavesdrop, so he resigned himself to another dinner of rote monotony. He did, because he was truly a self-loathing creature, keep an ear out for Mr. Hammond’s voice. Thomas thought of the way he laughed as he raced out in the shining sun. Of how golden he looked, of how easy and joyful this laughter had been.

            If Branson got him to laugh like that at dinner, Thomas wasn’t sure if he’d punch him or kiss him in gratitude.

            It didn’t seem likely Thomas would have to make that decision, however. As the main course got underway Branson turned to politics. The man never could get it through his head what was appropriate conversation at the table.

            Mr. Hammond had said, “The Americans certainly were entertaining at the celebrations. None of them seemed to be fans of prohibition.”

            Branson said, “It seems odd that a ‘land of the free’ would pass that.”

            “Well for their own sakes, I hope it doesn’t last much longer. Though I believe it’s an amendment so they might be stuck with it.”

            “Do you follow American politics, then?”

            Mr. Hammond adjusted his glasses. “I try to keep track of who’s president, but English politics are enough for me.”

            “I’ve always had a great interest in politics myself,” Branson said, and it was that which caught the attention of Lady Edith from across the table. “Tom,” she said, equal part nervous and warning.

            Branson laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t scare him off.” To Mr. Hammond he said, “I used to be a bit more zealous about the topic. I went to rallies before the war. Getting married and having a child has made me more cautious I think.”

            Maybe not so entertaining after all Thomas thought, but then Mr. Hammond opened his mouth.

            “Passion is good, I think. I have a few of my own radial ideals.”

            “Really,” Branson said.

            “Yes. Well. Not too radical, I suppose. But I do believe we ought to get rid of the House of Lords.”

            “And only have one house?”

            “No, I think there should be a second House of Commons. We can hardly call ourselves a democracy if we still have representatives who have done nothing to deserve their post past being born.”

            Thomas had to close his eyes for a moment so not to visibly wince. Mr. Hammond hadn’t been speaking very loudly but his last statement had caught the attention of the gentleman next to him, and Mr. Carson.

            “I beg pardon, sir, but perhaps you ought to remember you are sitting among some members of the House of Lords who don’t care to be insulted,” the man next to him said.

            Mr. Hammond turned pale, his eyes going wide and round behind his glasses. “No, I – I didn’t mean any _personal_ offence.”

            “It’s just conversation,” Branson quickly added.

            “Well I don’t find it appropriate. Especially from two people who quite obviously do not know what they are discussing.”

            Mr. Hammond visibly squared his shoulders. Mr. Carson, panicked, motioned for Andy and Molesly to start clearing the plates though the guests were hardly half way through.

            Mr. Hammond looked at his place setting as Andy leaned in between him and the Marques but his jaw was working, and there was a hardness to his expression Thomas had not seen on him before. “I cannot _fathom_ ,” he began “why you seem to believe Mr. Branson and I unqualified to discuss the matter, but I do not believe it is unreasonable for anyone to say that all representatives in a democracy should be voted into office.” By now, the whole table was watching. The Marques was getting red, slowly but surely; Branson looked pleased but apprehensive, secreting glances to Lady Mary; Lord Grantham looked positively tired of such things happening at his table; the rest of the guest’s expressions ranged from scandalized to annoyed; Mr. Hammond meanwhile kept his eyes down, not out of modesty or fear but out of restraint. Thomas could see how his muscles were tensed and coiled like they were at the starting line.

            “I find you incapable of debating it for you have just demonstrated you do not understand the topic,” the marquis said. “The House of Lords is comprised of men whose duty it is to protect the interest of their land those who live on it. We have been born into that responsibility. Yet you would dissolve this protection with no thought of the consequences.”

            “If you are so confident you and your colleges are so important to the population I don’t see why you wouldn’t be confident running for the position,” Mr. Hammond said.

            “A fair point,” Lord Grantham said loudly from the head of the table. “Carson, isn’t the next course ready?”

            “It is being brought up now, my Lord.”

            Mr. Hammond turned to set a fierce gaze on the Marquis but he said nothing more.

            He didn’t stay long after dinner; he sat quietly while the other men had port and cigars for a few minutes before excusing himself. Thomas wanted to go after him but it was far too early to abandon his post even to valet.

            “I hope you learned a valuable lesson reviewing your guest list, Robert,” the Marquis said.

            Thomas clipped a cigar with more gusto than was called for as he imagined using the cutter on a certain part of the Marquis.

            Lord Grantham was able to placate him by the end of the night, though he almost lost control of Branson a few times. When Thomas left to undress Mr. Hammond, the Marquis had agreed that it hadn’t been a personal insult, Mr. Hammond had been a bit more stern than necessary but could be forgiven. Thomas was glad to hear it, because he imagined Mr. Hammond had spent the last few hours running his hand through his hair and letting his nerves get the best of him.

            Mr. Hammond’s room was lit softly by the lamp. He had already undressed, and sat at the desk in pajama bottoms and his undershirt with his chin resting against his knuckles. There was a book open before him but his eyes were forward and unfocused.

            “Sir?”

            Mr. Hammond gave a slight smile. “Are they going to tell me to cut my visit short?”

            “It wasn’t as bad as all that.”

            “I hate them,” he said softly. “I hate them and this house and how stupid and inadequate they make me feel.”

            “I don’t see you like that, sir,” Thomas said. His heart stopped beating as he realized how forward it sounded.

            Mr. Hammond stood, his fingertips lingering of the pages of his book. “Thank you. I can say without a doubt, Mr. Barrow, that you have been the most enjoyable aspect of this visit.” He tilted his head to look at Thomas and shifted slightly into his space. His eyes flitted over Thomas’s face, his chest. For a moment it seemed he might kiss him; Thomas’s mouth went dry. The room was so quietly and warm, bathed in orange light; Thomas wanted to say in the moment between breathes forever.

            Mr. Hammond looked back down. His fingers tapped the book before he took a deep breath and picked it up. He marked the page and then handed to Thomas. “Here. I thought you might like it.”

            Thomas took it and looked at the gold letters embossed on the green canvas cover; _Leaves of Grass_. Before Thomas could reply, Mr. Hammond said, “I’m already undressed, so… Goodnight, Mr. Barrow.”

            Thomas went straight to his room after; he undressed slowly, taking his time as he washed his face and hung his livery. The book stayed on his nightstand, so noticeable to him it may as well have been glowing. Finally, Thomas pulled back the covers and settled against the headboard. He opened to the page Mr. Hammond had marked and began reading.

            _The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me_

 

 

 

 

Mr. Hammond was subdued the next day, almost apprehensive it seemed. He didn’t say much, not even to Thomas. Thomas didn’t do much to prompt him, either. He accompanied Mr. Hammond to the stable again, the sound of the forest floor crunching under their feet the only conversation. The words of the poem repeated in his head like a song.

 

            _The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers, the young man all color’d, red, ashamed, angry_

            There were birds chirping and warbling, leaves rustling in the soft breeze.

           

            _The wet of woods through the early hours_

            Mr. Hammond’s hair was bright copper in the sunlight. His steps along the uneven path were measured and long. His eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheeks when he looked down.

 

            _The young man that flushes and flushes_

            Mr. Hammond stopped. They were near the end of the trail but still hidden by the woods. “Mr. Barrow.” He was facing Thomas. The day was warm but Thomas thought he could feel the heat coming off Mr. Hammond’s body.

 

_The young man that wakes deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master him_

            “Sir.”

            “Did you like the poem?” His voice was strained, as if he had to force the word past a lump in his throat.

 

            _The like of the same I feel, the like of the same in others_

            “Yes.” Thomas could barely make his voice louder than a whisper. Mr. Hammond was close to him now. Thomas’s breath was stuttering because no, not even now would he allow himself to hope but –

            Mr. Hammond’s had reached up to gently touch his cheek. Thomas could think of nothing but the warmth of him, heavy on his skin.

            “Please,” Mr. Hammond whispered. “Please say yes.”

           

            _The smell of apples, the aromas from crush’d sage-plant, min, birch-bark, / The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming_

            “Yes.”

            Mr. Hammond’s lips were on his, just barely, a cautious, sweet brush until Thomas’s hand covered Mr. Hammond’s and then they were pressed firmly together and Thomas could feel nothing but the point of contact.

            Mr. Hammond pulled back, his thumb softly stroking Thomas’s cheek, and said, “I’m so glad. I’m so glad.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two issues of Blast were published before World War I broke out. You can read them [here ](http://modjourn.org/render.php?id=1158591480633184&view=mjp_object)
> 
> The poem is Spontaneous Me by Walt Whitman. It does not appear completely or in order here. I highly recommend it. If you read it and think "Is this about what I think it's about?" the answer is yes.


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